Small things like that
by Kelirehenna
Summary: It can take a lot of courage to give someone a call. [Garland? , BrooklynMystel]


Title: Small things like that

Summary: It can take a lot of courage to give someone a call.

Rating: T, just to be safe.

Pairing: Well, the main pairing IS Garland/... , but Brooklyn/Mystel is also featured rather prominently in this. ... I just needed some Brooklyn/Mystel-loving, that's all.

Warning: Queerness, foul language and people having staring contests with their telephones. The usual stuff.

Disclaimer: Beyblade and it's characters do not belong to me, I'm just borrowing them to amuse myself and the others. Oh, and I don't own Ian McKellen, either.

Beta: Nancy. Still working for me without getting payed. Poor dear.

A/N: My first attempt to do a story where the main pairing is revealed only at the ending. It'll be more fun if you don't spoil yourself by checking what the pairing is before you start reading this, I tell you.

I'm still not sure whether Garland has three or five siblings. I ended up giving him five. Do correct me if you know better.

* * *

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Garland had always hated that clock. As long as he could remember, ever since his childhood, that wretched thing had existed, been located somewhere near his bedroom and basically made his life slightly more miserable by each stroke. It was loud, flamboyant and, according to his parents, extremely valuable. It had been given to him when he had moved to his own apartment. 'To make you feel at home wherever you are', his parents had said with a fond smile. Garland doubted that by that they had meant annoying and somewhat nerve-wrecking. Then again, considering how things had sometimes been in his previous home when his siblings had still lived there, maybe they just had.

Garland had followed the steps of his five older siblings and moved away from home some time after he had turned 19, but before turning 20. He now owned a nice, spacious two-room apartment, located conveniently close both to his university and the centre of the city, and he lived in it all by himself. His friends, the few people he might have actually considered sharing his house with, lived in different cities, countries, continents even, or, in the case of Mystel and Brooklyn, already had their own flat and most likely enjoyed their privacy and didn't need another roommate.

There is a time, a moment in most of the people's lives when they have no idea what to do next. Garland had managed to react that point even though, if you considered it logically, he had it all worked out. He had his own, neat little home; he had got to the university he had originally planned on going, the only place where he had even applied to; he was studying at medical school, which his parents though to be an honourable and acceptable choice for a Siebald family member, right after a career in sports; and his martial art-skills had never been better. And still, he had to wonder whether any of this was something _he_ actually wanted.

In short, Garland had come to feel as if his life was on automatic control. He made all the right choices and did what he was supposed to, but never really asked himself whether he honestly wanted it. He didn't object when his parents advised him in what would be good for his future life and how he should live it. He wasn't sure whether his own wishes would have mattered at all, even if he had been expressing them out loud.

He lived his life by his inner rules, avoiding spontaneous stuff that could shift him off balance. Due to this, his life had turned utterly predictable, with the same routines repeating over and over again, with similar, healthy food almost every day, similar methods of doing homework; he had even begun to see same kind of dreams, where he usually started randomly killing people around him with one of the family heirloom swords. The therapist he had met only one time, a middle-aged lady hired by his parents after Garland had once said that he felt a bit stressed out, had said that the sword was a clear phallus-symbol, and the dream meant that Garland suffered from some kind of sexual inhibition. The lady had been kind enough to volunteer to help him get rid of it, and Garland had been kind enough to just walk out without punching her and vow never the see any therapists again.

Garland snorted. Thanks to the parents for that whole ordeal... He really did love his family (even though 'respect' might have currently described his feelings a bit better), but sometimes he wished that his childhood would have been quite different. All of his five siblings had always been relatively nice to him, but their success had left Garland with endless infernal pressure of being at least as good as them. His parents probably truly wanted the best for their children, but Garland had to admit that a few less training sessions and some more hugs and loving words might have made his life a lot easier.

Garland had reached a point in his life where the only moments when he could truly relax were the times he met his friends. This was most likely because they simply didn't allow him to worry about stuff, or talk about studies. Especially Brooklyn and Mystel took it as their duty to stop him thinking about stuff that mattered and make him concentrate on things that had absolutely no use considering his future. Garland liked to pay regular visits to their home, and usually said that he had come to borrow something. Mystel and Brooklyn most likely knew why he always drifted there, that he needed refuge when his head couldn't take it anymore, but they didn't have the heart so say so out loud. They knew Garland didn't like admitting straight that he needed his friends. Instead they just made sure that they always had enough sugar, flour and vegetables to share.

He really wanted his life to be different. He didn't want his classmates calling him "the human robot". He didn't want to live with a minute-schedule. He wanted to enjoy his life, not constantly worry whether he was good enough for his family and being afraid that he would fail them again.

He really, _really_ wanted a digital clock.

Right now, Garland was in an unusual situation. He had free time on his hands, and no plans on how to use it. He was vaguely aware that it was most likely rather late but he didn't know the exact time: he silently rebelled against the clock by ignoring it completely, not even looking at it. It was Friday night anyway, and he didn't feel tired at all.

Unfamiliar with moments like these when he was without company, Garland considered picking up one of his study books and reading it through for the fourth time. Then his eyes by accident took notice of a little paper note beside the telephone. It contained numbers. A phone number, to be exact.

Garland blinked, momentarily confused, but soon recalled the memories and the meaning of the number. Oh, yes. A small, spontaneous, misfit peace, lurking at the perfect puzzle that was his life. Last weekend, he had actually done something he usually didn't feel the need to. He had gone to a party.

xxx

"You have got to be kidding me."

The look on Brooklyn's face said that he wasn't.

"This is where you wanted to take me? To a club? To a techno trance party" Garland read aloud from the leaflet pinned on the wall. His voice was filled with disbelief.

"It'll be fun. Just a bit of dancing and getting loose, listening to good music. You know, a chance for you to improve your social life", Brooklyn said with allusive voice. He grabbed Garland's hand and tried to pull him forward. Garland didn't move an inch.

"No, really. I don't want to come. I don't care. If I would have needed something to do, I would have gone to the gym. Ryou is going to kill me if he finds out about this. So will my parents, mind you. I highly doubt that they believe is these sorts of ways to 'meet people'. Why can't you go alone? Better yet, why do you even want to go there?" Garland asked. Brooklyn didn't quite hit him as a party-loving guy.

"I don't like being alone in big crowds. And I go because I like the music. And there's this special feeling you get there, as though your heart and soul are one with the music."

"That does sound like something you would be into, alright. As a matter of fact, it sounds like something you and Mystel would both spasm about when I'm trying to study. And now that it got mentioned, why aren't you going with him? Trouble in paradise?" Garland asked absent-mindedly, already wondering what would be the easiest way to get back home. He noticed Brooklyn quieting down and looking somewhat dejected. Feeling a small sting of worry, Garland waited for his friend to answer the question.

"No, no trouble. It's just that... Mystel is under-aged", Brooklyn finally said. He did a pretty good job in hiding the slight sadness in his voice, but not enough for the other one to miss it completely.

And suddenly, just like that, Garland felt like the crappiest friend on planet.

"Oh, fine then. I'll come. But just for a short while. I mean it, Brooklyn. We won't be staying there."

xxx

Garland grinned sheepishly. Technically, if you compared the score with some of the other people's time spent at the parties, three and a half hours wasn't that bad.

xxx

Music was loud, and masses of people were jumping up and down, moving, waving their hands and dancing. Garland was forced to admit that the atmosphere _was_ quite unique. Even the over-priced water he had bought from the bar tasted different than usually. Brooklyn was standing next to him, drinking soda and nodding his head with the rhythm.

"I'm surprised, you know. No one has tried to sell us drugs yet", Garland said, fighting against the impulse to start moving with the music. Brooklyn just smiled meekly.

"That's a stereotype. Not all techno parties involve use of narcotics."

"I bet that if I would ask that guy with the beard, sitting on the corner, he'd say –"

"We should go dancing", Brooklyn cut him off fast.

Garland stared.

"I know you want to."

Garland stared some more.

"If you are not coming, I'll go alone", Brooklyn tried.

"Have fun then."

The redhead sighed, put his empty bottle on the bar table and left to the dance floor. Garland's eyes followed him go, memorizing which direction he walked to and where he settled on the floor. In case he wanted to check on him later, as Garland told himself. To see whether he was going too far with the fellow dancers or something like that.

Brooklyn and Mystel had been together for almost a year now. Even though their relationship always seemed rather pleasant at Garland's point of view, he still considered his responsibility to look after Mystel. Brooklyn was known to have pulled out some rather unexpected things in his past, and Garland didn't want Mystel to get hurt, especially as the little fellow was so obviously head over heels in love. So if Brooklyn was ever to deceive him, or even as much as flirt around a bit too much, Garland would personally drag his friend to a dark basement and beat the living daylight out of him. Brooklyn had once said that Garland was the best kind of friend he could ever hope for.

xxx

Garland shifted a bit in his chair. Brooklyn had mostly behaved himself that night. There had been some rather attractive people around him, some of them doing casual flirting, and some a bit more serious seducing. For a moment there, Garland had been wondering whether he needed to start asking people where the nearest basement was.

All of a sudden, Brooklyn had pulled his white T-shirt off, exposing the nicely trained abdominal muscles: a thing he had worked for the whole summer. The nearby people had applauded, yelled and made wolf-calls. Garland had frowned and made a few practice punches to the air. Then, calmly, the redhead had borrowed someone's marker and written to his shirt in big letters: Taken – and happy about it. He had put the shirt back on, spotted Garland's face from the crown and waved at him cheerfully. Garland had needed do work pretty hard trying not to laugh at the faces of the people who had just a minute ago tried their best hitting moves on Brooklyn.

Soon after that, he had noticed the DJ for the first time.

xxx

Garland walked to Brooklyn.

"Nice shirt. Did you notice that the DJ is someone we are both familiar with?"

Brooklyn looked at the stage.

"Oh, appears to be so. Now that you pointed it out, I think I saw his blonde friend a while back. There were a lot of people around him, I couldn't see properly, but I think it was him."

Garland took another look at the DJ. Of course he knew him, they were both bladers. Or at least they both had been; Garland had moved on to do other things and, as far as he knew, so had the other boy. They had, however, both experienced a part of the so called 'golden era' of Beyblade. The sport was still very popular, but not quite as much as it had been, say, a year ago. By now, most of the best bladers and famous teams had stopped playing in the championship-levels and made way to new players. Apparently they had taken a part of the sport's glory as they left.

Garland would have never guessed that the boy on the stage was a DJ based on how he seemed like when beyblading. But now that he was wearing ripped jeans and a simple red top, had a bit different hairstyle and was handling the DJ-table casually yet not without care and expertise while moving along with the music, Garland observed that he seemed more at home in his skin that ever. Looked rather sexy, too.

Garland tried to convince himself he hadn't thought about that last one, without much luck. And the mental images lingered on, showing him interesting pictures of how the rest of the night might go...

"You should go talk to him."

Garland didn't appreciate Brooklyn's insightfulness at a moments like these.

"He's the DJ. I doubt that you can just 'go talk to him', Brook."

"He's quitting soon. See, another DJ is already waiting for her turn."

Fair enough, there was a ponytailed girl with a basket of records waiting on the left side of the stage. DJ assigned her that he had reached the end of his shift. He gathered his records, put them on a box, which he left to the stage, and stepped away from the table. The girl replaced him immediately and threw him a warm smile. The boy replied by waving his hand and then started making his way towards the bar.

"Go", Brooklyn said with a curious smile and somehow managed to disappear to the crowd, leaving Garland alone and confused. The silver-haired male sighed and looked restlessly at the DJ who was currently buying a water bottle. Then, defeatedly, he started walking to his direction, to quickly say 'hi' and congratulate for the nice music choices and general good mood on the club.

xxx

Sheepish grin again. His 'hi' had actually turned into a two and a half hour long talk. And they had talked about so much. After the first half an hour, Brooklyn had come to tell that he was leaving and going home. Garland had waved him off without much words and skillfully ignored the redhead's cunning snicker.

After the initial two and a half hours, his companion's blonde friend had come to say that they needed to leave. The other boy had looked at Garland apologetically and said that he had enjoyed their talk. Garland had then received a small note with a phone number.

"Call me if you feel like it", the boy had said, winked a bit shyly and, after getting his records, followed the blonde and left the place.

Garland, not feeling quite himself and unready to go home and face the emptiness and homework, had decided to stay for a while. He had spotted a few guys from his school - first graders like him - and, even though he usually kept his distance from his classmates because they didn't seem interesting enough, joined their group on the dance floor. It had been around 3 am when he called a cab to take him home. Next morning he had woken up with a terrible headache, without finding any good reason for it. Garland had decided that he must have been allergic to having fun.

He had called Brooklyn and yelled at him a bit, in an effort to cheer himself up. The results had been very minimal. He had also spotted the little note with numbers inside his pocket. His first thoughts had been to demolish it, but after some consideration he had left it on the table next to his phone. To remind what partying would do to a person, he had assured himself. Not because he might actually want to make that call.

A week has passed from that, and now Garland most definitely wanted to call. He felt like he needed advice on how to handle the situation. Looking around in his silent, lifeless apartment, he had never felt more alone. He tried to concentrate, to think what his friends would have said if they had been there.

First, a big, slightly scary looking guy with a wide smile and golden heart floated to his subconsciousness.

"Garland, can't you just relax for a while? Take it easy. Loosen up that ponytail of yours. Get the stick out of your ass. Getting the drift already? Just call the guy. What harm could it possibly do to you?"

"It's not what I'd usually do, Crusher", Garland muttered half-loud.

The vision of the dark-skinned male warped into a blue-haired girl with an innocent smile. She gave him the peace-sign with her fingers and winked.

"Ming-Ming is so proud of you, Garland, if you call that guy."

The girl mutated into an older version of herself, the one with a great deal less innocent smile. Her eyes had a look which lacked innocence altogether.

"Besides, you might get laid. When's the last time that ever happened?"

"Hey!" Garland shouted in shock, trying to hide the embarrassment the correct answer inside his mind made him feel. The girl just laughed and suddenly turned boyish and blonde. Garland realized he was now looking at Mystel.

"Well. What would you have me to do? If it involves jumping around and eating fruits, don't bother telling me."

"Gee, Garland, why are you even asking this from _us_? It's kinda obvious that you really want to call this guy. If you didn't, would you really be doing any of this? No, you wouldn't. You'd be most likely in bed right now. I think that you're just desperately trying to make us give you a logical reason to call him and then force you to do it. You aren't seeing the fact that the only reason you really need is that you'd _like_ to call him."

Garland blinked. That had probably been the smartest thing Mystel's mental image had ever told him. He said so out loud. Mystel gave him a happy grin and made a few jumps, leaving nonexistent fingerprints to Garland's roof. Then Brooklyn materialized next to the blonde, hands quickly finding their place possessively on Mystel's hips. The redhead didn't say anything, just smirked.

"Oh, shut up you", Garland said and tried to poke Brooklyn. Then he realized that he couldn't do it because it was only a mental image. _Then_ he realized that he was honestly having a serious conversation with the mental images of his friends.

"You do know, Garland, that talking to yourself is considered the first sign of madness?" Brooklyn reminded friendly. Garland just glared.

"Shoo!" he said and waved his arms around. The images of Brooklyn and Mystel became blurry and soon vanished.

As Garland seriously pondered whether sleeping would be the healthy choice, he came by chance to stare at the wall where the mirror was. He looked at himself for a while.

_I wonder if _he_ thought that I was good-looking?_

Garland had a realistic view about his physical appearance. He knew he wasn't the typical prince charming: he lacked the bedroom-eyes and short, curly hair. He was aware that he would never be considered as cute as Mystel, and his dreamy, soft look wouldn't make people sigh as Brooklyn's did. However, he did have a good-looking body. He had worked for it a long time, and had to cope with certain losses to keep himself fit. Cheeseburger and chips had been tough thing to give up on, but now he had managed to be without them for more than four years.

More suffering than the loss of junk food was caused by his personal trainer and martial arts coach, mister Ryou: a man in his mid 40's, a hardcore perfectionist and a person who's idea of having fun was watching movies and pointing out what went wrong with the actors' fighting moves. Garland's parents had been the ones to first contact the man about a year ago. They had said that he was the best in business, and that Garland was really lucky that mister Ryou was able to teach him. Garland was sure that the only reason he had been 'lucky' enough to have him as a couch was that no one else could stand the man for more than a day before losing their temper. But Garland had been living with his parents and many siblings for a long time. He had had practice.

Garland suffered through four practices a week. His main reason for survival was the image he caressed in his mind – after he would prove himself to his parents and stop competing in martial arts, after he would start teaching his own classes, he would go to see mister Ryou and calmly pronounce every possible insult he could come up with. Sometimes during the hardest lessons he had flashes where he would stand up from the mattress he had just been knocked down to, smile to the coach and say 'up yours' before leaving the dojo. The mere idea itself cheered him up greatly.

The phone seemed to stare at him accusingly now. Garland stared back. Neither of them blinked for a while. Finally he had to give up because his eyes started hurting. He didn't think the competition was fair at all, and he stated this out loud. The phone didn't respond.

"Smug bastard", Garland said with a vengeful glare. His phone seemed offended.

It was small things like these which made him wonder whether he should order a nice, padded car to take him to the nearest mental asylum.

Small things... He recalled that night again, and that blonde friend of his companion. Garland had been talking with the DJ for about an hour when someone, probably the club owner, had called out the boy's name. He had disappeared for a while. Out of a sudden, the blonde had appeared out of nowhere and checked Garland out from head to toes.

"Well... You do seem like his type, I'll grant you that much. If you plan on making something serious out of this, let me give you some peace of advice. Don't try to get to his pants immediately, he hates that kind of people. Don't try to be overly feminine – not that I mean that you would, jeez, don't look so freaked out – or masculine, his last relationships have ended mostly because he has a habit of choosing people with gender crisis. He defines the future of the whole possible relationship based on the first, actual date. So if you get that far, don't be overly dramatic or gentleman-like, be normal. He likes people with whom he can feel comfortable with. If you wish to impress him, do small things. Buy him a stuffed animal, he has a secret love for them. Share a soda if he doesn't have his own and he looks thirsty, he won't ask you if he could have a sip. Kiss him on the cheek before you say goodnight, then leave. And trust me on this one, I've known him for a while now: if you want a cheap fling, I suggest you look elsewhere, he's really not that kind of guy. That applies also if you aren't prepared to see any trouble with your relationships. Other than that, have fun. I'll be backing off now, I see the star of the evening coming over there. Bye."

With that, the blonde had left, leaving Garland completely speechless. Blonde's friend had returned, apologized for the pause in the conversation and smiled, completely oblivious of what kind of advice Garland had just received. Garland had tried his best not to let the blonde's words affect him in any visible way. After all, at that time there hadn't been any talk about a date, or even if they would ever see each other again.

Garland was sitting over at the table, leaning his hands to the wooden surface and looking at the phone, hoping it would tell him what to do.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Phone had recruited the clock to its assistant. They were both very efficient at their mission known by the name 'make the human lose the last bits of his sanity'.

"See? See? This is what happens when you mess with me. Do you feel lucky, punk?" phone seemed to say to him. Its voice sounded distantly like Ian McKellen.

Garland blinked.

_Oh dear god... I need a _life

Some content to his present life could be a good start, too. Maybe he needed a boyfriend to whom he could call on a nights like these, just to tell that the clock and the phone had made an unholy alliance. Maybe he needed someone to listen to him quietly and then tell him to stop eating all those pink mushrooms and go to bed already.

What good was his seemingly perfect life with nice flat and good education, if he self-destructed by slowly becoming insane and never experienced things most of his friends did?

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

The clock was openly mocking him now.

_Tick._ You're. _Tock._ Wasting. _Tick._ Your. _Tock._ Life.

Garland grabbed the phone and dialed the number on the note, cursing his lack of sleep.

No one was answering in the other end. Garland waited for what seemed to be an eternity, increasingly panicked about whether he should just hang up and stop bothering people.

It's small things like giving someone a call that matter the most in this life. Just as Garland had given up and was about to put the phone down, someone picked up at the other end of the line.

"Yeah?" came the slightly hesitating answer.

Garland took a deep breath.

"Claude? Hey, it's me, Garland. You gave me your number last week, at the party? I just thought to give you a call."

The sound of the clock seemed to magically fade away.

Due to a miraculous coincidence, at the very moment Garland looked at the clock for the first time in many hours, its batteries died down and the clock stopped working. Garland was in no hurry to get it running again, even though he doubted that the ticking would have bothered him anymore.

* * *

If you just scrolled down without reading this to see what the main pairing was... well, I can't really scold you. That's probably exactly what I would do in this situation. x..X

Soo. GarlandClaude. How many of you people (who actually read this without first checking the pairing, that is) guessed the pairing right?

... if anyone though it would be GarlandTyson, my goal is somewhat reached. -evil cackle-

... and it appears that my Garland is slightly mental. Go figure.

I'd like to take the opportunity to remind that authors like reviews. Leave a review, get a spiritual cookie?


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